Non-Negotiable

As soon as she got better, her training resumed. And, naturally, they didn't waste time with a "take it slow" approach. Nope. They threw her right back into the fire with about as much compassion as a boot camp instructor after one too many cups of coffee.

The first thing she noticed? She was no longer training solo. Oh no, now it was with a minimum of ten people. Some days it was upwards of twenty. Because what's better for someone who nearly got torn apart by monsters? A crowd of heavily armed agents looking at you like you're the next thing they have to shoot.

"Alright, load up," Vance—the human embodiment of a bad mood—barked. He was a walking pile of muscles and regret, with a permanent scowl etched on his face like he'd made poor life decisions and was determined to make everyone else pay for them. "We'll be using every weapon you'll have in normal ops. You got a problem with that, take it up with the paperwork you'll fill out when you quit."

She sighed inwardly. This was going to be fun.

The arsenal they laid out looked like the world's angriest Christmas tree: pistols, rifles, shotguns, grenades, and—because why not—a few stun batons for "variety." Each weapon was laid out like a buffet of destruction, and she was expected to feast on all of it.

They started with pistols. "Focus on your grip," one of the instructors muttered in that delightful tone they used when they thought you were just a giant disappointment to the entire profession of shooting things.

She took a deep breath, trying to block out the throbbing in her newly reattached arm. The first shot? Not bad. She hit the target. Middle-ish. The second shot? Well, that one might've grazed an imaginary hostage off in the corner, but hey, they don't pay her to be a sniper, right?

"Again," Vance barked, clearly unimpressed.

She fired again, this time hitting the target squarely, but honestly, she was starting to wonder if this was all some elaborate prank to see how many times they could get her to shoot at a piece of cardboard before her arm gave out.

Next came the assault rifles. These were heavier, with more kickback, because what's a fun day at the training range without feeling like your shoulder's going to dislocate?

The targets moved now. They popped up, darting around, probably just to piss her off. She fired, missed, adjusted, fired again—slightly better. Meanwhile, the other agents were reloading like it was second nature, and she was still trying to figure out why the safety on her rifle was so finicky. Honestly, it felt like everyone else had spent years being raised by gun-toting wolves, and she was still working out how to tie her shoes.

Then came close combat. Because why wouldn't you want to take a few stun baton hits after nearly getting torn apart by monsters? The plan, apparently, was to simulate an attack. Multiple attackers, all coming at her at once. Fun, right? Ten—sometimes twenty—agents rushing at her like Black Friday shoppers after the last flatscreen on sale.

First few rounds? She got knocked down more times than a toddler learning to walk. She could barely register what hit her before she was eating mat. But each time, she forced herself back up, because apparently, if you're not bruised, bloodied, and slightly embarrassed, you're not really training.

"Come on!" Vance hollered as she dodged a baton by sheer luck. "You think the beasts are gonna give you a second chance? Move your ass!"

And so she did. Kind of. She flailed her way through the next few drills like a cat in a bathtub, somehow managing to avoid the worst hits, but still feeling like she'd been through a meat grinder by the end of the day.

During the actual fight drills, things got worse. There was no more practicing on paper targets or imaginary enemies. No, now it was full-on chaos. Agents came at her, guns blazing with simulation rounds, and she was supposed to shoot back, reload, dodge, not die. You know, the basics.

The problem with all of this? The guns. 

After what felt like her tenth reload in five minutes, she was starting to seriously doubt if guns were really her thing. They made it look so easy in the movies—heroes firing off shots like they had a bottomless pit of bullets and nerves of steel. But here? Here she was sweating, fumbling with the magazine, and mentally screaming at the little plastic bullets for not magically reloading themselves.

Her fingers were numb from gripping the rifle, her vision swimming slightly from the constant motion of dodging, firing, dodging again. She shot once, twice, missed both times, and then suddenly her rifle clicked empty. 

Reload again? Seriously?

She dropped behind cover, hands fumbling with the new magazine. Meanwhile, the agents kept coming, their footsteps echoing through the training room like a drumbeat of doom. She could feel her pulse skyrocketing, her heart pounding in her ears as she shoved the magazine into place.

By the time she popped up again, there were three of them closing in fast. She aimed, fired, and one went down. Or, well, "down" as much as someone can when it's a training sim. The other two, though, didn't seem remotely impressed by her newfound ability to hit a target.

One of them tackled her before she could react, knocking the gun from her hands. She hit the ground hard, the air rushing out of her lungs, and all she could think was, maybe guns aren't the best option for me.

Her mind flashed back to the basement fight, the feeling of claws and teeth tearing at her, and how utterly useless all the firepower had felt back then. Sure, guns were great when you had distance, but when it came to close quarters? Yeah, not so much.

She scrambled, trying to get the gun back, but her attacker was already on her. They pinned her down, and all she could think was, this would be a great time for a grenade. Too bad she had none.

Instead, she grabbed a nearby stun baton, swinging wildly. It hit the agent, sending them toppling off of her, and she scrambled back to her feet, pulse pounding.

Maybe guns aren't the worst option. But seriously, there's gotta be something better.

————————————————————

The gun drills were bad. The combat drills? Worse. But none of it compared to the endless team exercises, where everyone worked like a well-oiled machine—except her, who, despite best efforts, was the squeaky cog jamming up the works. At one point, she had the sneaking suspicion that everyone was waiting for her to quit so they could go back to their regularly scheduled badassery without her dragging the team down.

By the end of the week, her body felt like it had been hit by a truck—repeatedly. Her arm throbbed, her legs were jelly, and she had the constant feeling that Vance was mentally writing her eulogy every time he looked her way. But she pushed through. Because sure, she had some mysterious, blood-drinking beast hanging out in her head, but no one here needed to know that. What they did need to know was that she wasn't going to break—at least not in front of Vance.

That, she decided, was non-negotiable.